Hallelujah
by eboncat
Summary: Title: Hallelujah Fandom: DA:2 For: DA2-Rivalmance comp - Singing Hearts. Rating: M (for being horribly depressing and possibly triggering for some) Characters: Anders (DA:2), Fem Warrior Hawke, other DA:2 NPC's and companions. Word Count: 1353


Sweet Andraste he was grateful to her. So grateful. He had never meant to harm so many innocents. He had deliberately waited until there was a crowd at the Gallows that had drawn the inhabitants of the chantry out. He had wanted to destroy the symbol, not the people who lived there, but the Grand Cleric had stayed. He had no idea until he heard the cries of his companions. He had known that it would be painful, cause him guilt, but it was necessary and he had known he would have to pay the price. He had never expected to be given the chance to fix his mistakes though.

Maker, he was scared.

More scared that he had ever been. More scared than at his Joining, or the times he had been dragged screaming back to the circle. More scared than when he was first taken by the Templars on his name day so many years ago. More scared than the day the door to the solitary cell closed in his face, not to open again for over a year. But no matter how many horrors surrounded them, her grace and bravery shone though, a blinding beacon of hope in this desperate place.

Oh Maker...

He thought back on his time with Her, she was the only being who could incite him to take the maker's name not in vain, but in reverence. She filled his heart, owned his body, both burned and soothed his soul.

He had tried to fight it for so long... so very long. Her flashing eyes, her sharp tongue, her passion, her grit. It was easy to fight it at the start, but the fighting seemed so pointless as time went on and life became tangled beyond hope. Her compassion though hidden, was there. Usually when it served her best, but it was there. And it lit up his life. It finally broke his resolve.

Yes, resist he did, but he had failed, inevitably. And he had fallen. His spirit had both rejoiced and railed, screaming it's confusion and disapproval. He had ignored it... if only he had not... but when he was inside her house, inside her body, he was whole. In her he was fractured, yet complete. He was home.

Maker... He had done some stupid regrettable things in his life, so many stupid things. The one thing he got right was her.

He limped over to the tiny window, leaned his head on the bars and watched her far below, bathed in moonlight. It wouldn't be long now...

He watched as she removed the robe, thinking back to the first time they were together.

Sweet Andraste, he had never seen anything like her before. All soft flesh, and hard muscle, and fury, and patience, and devotion, and obstinance all rolled into one. So many facets, both ethereally beautiful and unbearably harsh. When they came together, it was both penance and absolution.

He gazed down upon her now naked form, watched as the Prince and the Templar attended her, water beading, oils glowing, incense writhing in the air around her like a living halo. She was breathtaking under the moon's cold rays. She was pure and harsh and heart wrenchingly beautiful.

He raised his hand to run fingers through his hair, only at the last moment realizing that long blonde locks had fallen to her blade as the sun slid below the horizon. The hand dropped back to his side and his breath hitched, unshed tears glistening in his golden eyes. He didn't want her to see him like this, even if this was how she had groomed him.

Sweet Maker, after all this he loved her still.

Keys scraped in the lock and his stomach lurched, panic wrapping like snakes in the pit of his belly.

Maker, help him, but he could barely breathe. Fear was surging up so that he could taste it in the back of his throat.

It would help if he could see something, but after entering the room she had bound his eyes, as securely as she had bound his heart. She had kissed his lips and his face and lovingly tied her red sash over his eyes. It had been dark, but he could still see her clearly enough to see that enigmatic look in her eyes as she covered his own, the fresh etching on her armor, the new skirting. He had felt a moment of something akin to dread but closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her breath on his skin as she kissed his lips and whispered endearments. She was resplendent. It suited her to be surrounded by light.

He swallowed and clamped his jaw tight to silence his cry of relief when he heard the voices of his friends, he had not expected them to be here, he had expected to be alone. He would feel the auras of those he loved as he met the Maker, that was something to be grateful for. He could be grateful for that. He could...

He could hear the murmur and creak of armor and the smell of damp stone, and he fought another wave of panic. His bare feet slid on the cold floor and his spine jarred as he fell to the ground. Gentle hands lifted him up and guided him along. The care in that touch almost undid him. The small kindness contrasted painfully with the acrid smells and the blinding fear in his gut. His breath came in great gulps and he tried again not to let his sobs pass his tongue.

Dear Maker he tried not to struggle as they shackled him, he tried so hard. He shook with the effort of not struggling. He had promised her that he would accept whatever fate she deemed worthy for his sins, and he would not, _could_not break his word to her again.

He heard the whisper of naked steel and felt her hand on his chest, her lips on his forehead and he waited for the blade. Would she slit his wrists? Cut his throat? Pierce his heart? He had expected to be locked in the Circle again, but if it was to be death then at least she would make it quick. She would set him free through death. She was merciful.

Sweet Prophet, he hoped she would pierce his heart. It would be fitting. It would make sense.

He bit his tongue when the shaking got bad enough that his teeth chattered, and he tried to ignore the warmth and the smell seeping into the room. He was glad that he couldn't see it, he didn't want to see it. Recognition clawed at the edges of his denial and he squeezed his eyes shut behind the silk that covered them.

Despite his efforts a small sob escaped his mouth as long fingered hands lifted the sash from his eyes. He turned his cheek to her hand and blinked away tears, blinded momentarily by the light of a hundred candles glinting off the golden band on her forehead. Her fingers trailed over his bare chest, as she gently stripped away all of his power. He didn't want to see the emblem on her chest, his mind refused to recognize the implication, but as she raised her hand, his spirit forced him to face the truth.

Sweet fucking maker not this... And then he could no longer help it. He tried to struggle but the smite hit him a moment before the steel touched his flesh.

And it burned... Maker but it burned, not just his skin, but the very essence of his being.

Andraste no... Please _please_NO! He wondered who was screaming until he realized it was his own voice being torn from his throat in a rush of terror and revulsion and dread.

He had not expected this. No one had expected this. He recognized the cries of his companions, those that he had lived with, fought with and loved exclaiming disbelief. His eyes widened in shock, and a split second before everything went so coldly quiet that he would forget what it even meant to feel he looked up into those beautifully, ironically tranquil eyes and whispered.

"I forgive you"


End file.
